True Crime: New York City the Novel
by Afro7hundr
Summary: Join Marcus Reed, criminal turned Ace Detective in his wacktastic adventure through the concrete jungle New York City.
1. Vengeance

_Vengeance_

8:22 PM, 12/25/00: Harlem, 110th Street

Down the darkened snow swept streets of Harlem a lone yellow junker rumbles down an empty road. The vehicle is caked with mud, its windows shattered and holes lining the exterior, scars of a narrowly escaped confrontation that it shared with its driver.

_New York City._

The car makes a left turn and continues along.

_Manhattan Island. 25 square miles of crowds, concrete; Crimes so cold, they'd whither the soul... and freeze the blood._

Pain shot through Marcus's shoulder again, causing him to wince, reminding him of what had transpired earlier that night.

Unforgivable.

The car pulled another left, and Marcus let off the gas. The rumble died down and the vehicle glided into the street.

_Millions exist here, walking streets that may swallow them whole... or spit out their bones._

Quietly, the vehicle eased to a stop in front of a red brick apartment building. Pain knifed into him, and Marcus doubled over in another wave of agony. His breathing grew labored, the numbing fire that burned through his body keeping him in his seat.

How close had it come? For both of them? Why it happened, he never knew. But he did know who was responsible. That was all he cared about at the moment.

He took an aching glance up the steps to the building, and remembered what he came here for. His anger flared up, eventually blocking out the pain and enabling him to move. He gave his door a push and hobbled out into the biting cold.

_When you've been locked away for the better part of 15 years, you got no choice but to rely on those closest to you to watch out for your interests outside..._

Marcus looked up and down the street. Sure he was alone, he reached behind and pulled out a weapon, an Uzi with a fresh clip locked in. He gave the hammer a yank for good measure before placing it back in his pants.

_In my absence my son was given the keys to my kingdom, placing his trust in those who "claimed" my allegiance._

He was unsteady, shaken even. He glanced down the street again, perhaps out of paranoia, then refocused his attention on the steps.

_...as it turned out, it was a decision both of us would come to regret, and on the streets of New York City..._

Marcus limped forward, took the stairs one step at a time and eventually found himself facing the blackened windows of the building's door.

_...regrets are measured, in bullets._

Three subsequent pounds summoned Jerry to the door.

"Ay Kev! I do think the bitches have arrived!" he called down the hallway before trotting up to door.

"Better be, Jay. This severe lack of pussy is killing the mood."

Grinning like a fool, Jerry grabbed the door and greeted the luscious ladies. He was surprised to find a lack of luscious ladies, who in their place stood a very angry looking Marcus, leaning on one good leg and torso soaked with blood.

"Yo, Marcus!?"

He limped in, pushing Jerry aside.

"Damn money! I didn't know man! I swear!"

"Bounce the fuck out..." Marcus ordered coolly, motioning him over to the door. When Jerry didn't move, Marcus gave him a push. "_Now!"_.

Jerry disappeared into the night, and Marcus turned back to the hallway. The building was utterly derelict, wallpaper torn and left sagging on the walls, shoddy wooden flooring creaking with every step. To the left, a staircase led the way to the second floor, and to the right sat a small room. Ahead of him, a hallway led into another space. That was his destination.

He continued forward, reaching into his pocket to retrieve a pair of earplugs. Down the hall, to the left sat a pothead lighting up a bong on a couch, and to the right some chickenhead was staring at him with deep interest. Marcus paid them little attention as he passed, the bitch sidling up to the wall and the pothead continuing to breath in the drug, undisturbed. Marcus rolled the plugs into each hand and twisted them into his ears. With each nice and snug, he whipped out his two Uzis.

"Yo why you cheatin'?" Tye asked Reece, who were both playing a sports video game in the room. "Let me set my audible, dog!"

Marcus entered the room unnoticed, looking to the two clowns balking over the game.

"Heheh, fuck you nigga you needs to get up on it!"

His gaze turned from them and rested on the bald, black head of Kev Lar, who was sitting on a couch in the middle of the room with a girl laying beside him and resting her head against his leg.

"Both y'all niggas needs to shut the fuck up." he stated, shifting in his seat to get comfortable.

Marcus never took his eyes off him as he walked behind the couch, the noise of the game masking his footsteps. Although he didn't intend to do this subtly.

The whore that was nuzzling up next to Kev suddenly sat up at the sight of the bloodied man who rounded the couch, brandishing submachine guns. Kev Lar turned to see what the trouble was, and when he caught sight of Marcus he all but jumped to his feet.

"_Marcus!_" he blurted, a little more urgently than he would have liked. The two gamers whirled about in their seats, and all eyes fell on the man in question.

Marcus did nothing. He merely eyed Kev Lar with a stone cold gaze.

"Damn dun..." Kev said quietly, looking to Tye and Reece before looking back at Marcus with a smile.

"Look who ain't dead, yo!"

His enthusiasm sounded honest enough, but his constant blinking was a dead giveaway. He hadn't expected Marcus to be alive, but he also didn't want him to be.

Marcus chose that moment to speak.

"I ain't the only one." he said very plainly.

Only the game could be heard in the tense silence that the group shared. Kev shifted his weight.

"...whatchu talkin' 'bout nigga?" he asked evasively.

"You're boys fucked up Kev."

Marcus's tone began to rise and his eyes began to narrow.

"My Pops is _still alive_!"

Sincerity gave way to wariness as Kev Lar finally understood. Marcus knew it was him.

Tye and Reece rose out of their seats, sensing that shit was about to go down. The girl sat wide eyed like a deer in headlights and Kev eyed the desert eagle that sat on the table in front of him.

"Time is running out." the game's announcer chimed in.

"Better pick a play."

Marcus glanced at the two men who rose to the occasion, and snapped back at the sudden movement that caught his eye. On reflex, he lifted both weapons in Kev Lar's direction and gave the triggers a pull.

Kev was sent reeling back and over the couch under the subsequent storm that riddled his body with hot lead. The girl screamed and bolted, and Marcus turned his attention to Tye and Reece, both of whom were brandishing weapons. Marcus aimed and cut loose with another volley of bullets, first tearing apart Reece and then sending Tye back crashing into the plasma screen. Behind him, a shaking hand rose from behind the couch and pulled Kev Lar to his feet. He looked to the carnage that had taken place across the room, and pointed an accusing finger in Marcus's direction.

"I'm hit!" he cried, hobbling off into the hallway. "Kill that fucker Marcus!"

Marcus whirled and fired a burst after him, just missing as Kev disappeared from sight.

"You ain't getting away!" he called, and raced after him.

He raced back into the room when a stream of bullets suddenly cut through the hall. Fire continued to rain down the passage until only the audible clicks of empty weapons could be heard, and Marcus rushed in.

Near the stairs one prick stood, searching himself for another clip of ammo while another stood to his right, already loading in a fresh clip. Marcus chose him first, firing as he went down the passage and cutting him to ribbons. The next guy barely had time to grab himself a clip before he too was gunned down. More gunfire erupted from the room to the left, and Marcus ducked back into the hall. Bullets tore their way out of the room and pounded into the wall. When the firing ceased, Marcus took a dive across room's entrance, peppering the area with two blazing guns in mid-air. He landed on his back at the end of his leap, and looked up to the second level as a panicked voice sounded above him.

"Get in there and _cap Marcus you idiot_!"

A goon raced for the stairway, then recoiled at the sight of Marcus aiming for him from below. Shots found their way into his gut, and he doubled over and crashed through the second floor railing. Marcus spun himself onto his feet, a neat little trick he learned in Karate class as a child and marched up the stairs.

Marcus turned right, and found himself looking down another hallway with swishing double doors situated at the end, each swing revealing a fast retreating man wearing a turquoise bath robe behind them.

_Kev Lar._

The doors suddenly burst open, and some fat guy with a baseball cap came lumbering out. He was sent spinning back under a shower of lead, breaking down the doors and kicking up dust. Two men were standing within the room, firing haphazardly at Marcus on his approach. Curiously enough, they only wore boxers.

Marcus ducked low under their aim and rolled into the room. Quick as he could, he leveled a gun on each man ended them both in unison. As the last of the casings clattered to the floor, Marcus cut across the room and peered out of a single broken window. He watched a limping Kev Lar duck his way beneath a hole in a fence and make bloody tracks down the alley, rounding a corner and clutching his stomach as he went.

"_He's heading this way!_ "

Marcus ducked back in and hopped out of the window and on the fire escape. He clambered onto the ladder leading down and slid his way to the ground, not skipping a beat as he dashed through the alley. He slid through the gap with deft quickness, a slide that carried him a little too far; beneath the fence, past a parked car and right into the sights of a gangster who was taking careful aim at him from a fire escape above.

Marcus's feet reached a wooden fence, and he kicked himself off backwards just as three holes were planted in the ground, missing him narrowly. Marcus returned fire, one of his shots catching the man square in the face, who staggered and fell slumped against the window.

Marcus returned to his feet and headed around the corner, catching sight of a banger cowering behind a dumpster. Marcus gave him a passing blast of automatic fire as he continued down the alley, and watched three more goons appear from around a corner and take cover behind a dark blue Impala that sat parked at the end. He dove for cover inside of a dumpster as more bullets were sent his way. He risked a glance out, and saw that the car was trailing something. A big gas tank.

Marcus was thankful now, and would be thankful many times in the future for the plethora of dumbasses that consisted of nigh 80% of the amount of people he would have to defeat before his story was over, the kind that could never grasp the concept of exploding objects and the fact that taking cover around, near or even behind such things in a firefight was not the key to a long healthy life.

Marcus was all too happy to educate them.

A short stream of bullets ignited the tank, and the alley was ravaged by a destructive hot wind that obliterated the vehicle and every jackass behind it. Marcus ducked beneath the dumpster and felt the big green container give a lurch in the opposite direction. The resultant thunder pounded against his ears, reverberating inside the dumpster with powerful sonic waves.

Seconds passed, and Marcus clambered out and into the warm snowy night, flames roaring throughout the blasted alley. Smoking blood stains painted the wall near where the three stooges once stood, and the burning remains of the Impala only added more heat to the furnace. Marcus eased his way down the alley, protecting his face from the fires as he rounded the last corner, leading to a dead end and the stairs leading down to the cellar.

Marcus started down the stairs with guns at the ready when he pressed himself against the wall at the sound of Kev Lar's voice.

"...I think this is it for me."

It was rattled and hoarse, no doubt due to his injuries. Within, Marcus heard the creaking of a dumpster door and it's subsequent slamming. Splashing footsteps sounded the presence of more goons, and Marcus watched the flooded floor ripple with movement. He inched down the stairs, sidling up to the wall and spun around the corner, keeping his guns trained down the corridor. No one made themselves readily apparent, and Marcus slid his feet down the passage to keep his sound to a minimum. The passage turned only right, and he knew that this path led nowhere else.

Kev Lar was trapped.

He crept up to the corner leading into the next area and peered carefully around it. He could see a total of five men prepared to meet him, three hiding behind three water tanks and two standing at the rear. Marcus pulled his head back and weighed his options. His only cover was one corner, and under the combined firepower of five guns, no matter how crappy the marksmen operating them were he wouldn't be able to find any chances to fight back. He was outnumbered, and they were expecting him to come down any second.

However, they didn't know he was already there.

_Blitz ._

He dashed from the corner and down the cellar, in plain view of every gunman situated within. Suicide under any other circumstances, but Marcus was a pissed off negro wielding two submachine guns, and also the main character of the story. The five clowns wouldn't stand a chance.

The three situated behind the water tanks got a full dose of hot lead from Marcus's left weapon, the containers exploding with water and shrapnel as bullets tore their way through them, and Marcus directed his right weapon in the direction of the two men at the back.

He effectively perforated one of the thugs, and was about to lay waste to the second until the sound of a hollow click announced that his weapon had run dry.

His fantastic run was cut short.

Ice shot through his spine as he watched the final thug, unmolested, level a pistol on him. In that fleeting moment, Marcus knew there wasn't anything between him and the bullet the man was about to send his way.

Everything slowed to a crawl.

Marcus didn't know how he did it, but in the few nanoseconds he had before the thug pulled his trigger he managed to swing his left gun all the way around and rest its aim on the thug's face. The flash erupted in crisp detail, the casing seemed to float from the chamber as the bullet set sail and struck the man right between the eyes.

His arms flopped into the air uselessly, and were held rigid as he fell backwards into the water.

Marcus didn't move for a moment.

_How the hell?..._

He lowered his weapon, casting away his spent right. He focused his attention on the lone blue dumpster situated at the back of the room and reprioritized his thinking.

He stepped over to the container, lifted the hood and stuck his Uzi in Kev Lar's face.

"You weren't _shit_, until I brought you in." he stated, keeping his gun trained on Kev's skull as he coughed and sputtered.

...and then chuckled.

"You just like your old man." he managed between slight coughs, and he gave Marcus a wide smile.

"_You_ _always gon' git played, nigga!"_

Marcus's face contorted into a look of pure disgust, and he gave Kev Lar a blast from his Uzi before letting the dumpster door slam down.

_Justice served._

He turned away from the dumpster and let his gun clatter to the ground. Tired and sore, he ran a hand down his face.

A goon who was not quite dead from Marcus's previous rampage rose from the ground behind him, leveling his pistol on the unwitting gangster. He straightened himself up to take the shot, and a blast echoed through the cellar.

The goon reared back, and fell into the water once more.

Marcus whirled, and saw a familiar face standing across the room training a smoking pistol on the luckless prick. Marcus stepped forward.

"So you heard, huh?" he asked, relieved to see one friendly face this unfortunate night. The friendly face was a childhood friend of Marcus's, or at least his childhood anyway.

The man placed the pistol back in his coat and approached Marcus.

"A call came in about your Pops getting shanked. I had to see if you were ok."

The man took a look around the carnage, the dirty water mixing with the blood of the dead goons.

"_What the hell happened Marcus?..._ "

"They tried to murk me too." Marcus replied, and motioned a hand in the direction of the blue dumpster.

"Mother fuckers with no loyalty don't _deserve_ _to live_."

The man frowned, bringing his hand to his face in stress.

"_Jesus Christ_ ."

Marcus closed the gap, clenched his fists and held them to the detective.

"I guess you gotta do, whatchu gotta do."

The detective removed his hand and gave Marcus a concerned look.

"Ok..." he said, but made no motion to arrest him. Instead, he turned away. "Ok. I'll take care of it."

Marcus watched him walk across the area and assess the situation. He approached the detective again.

"Don't owe me nothin'…" he said sincerely.

He was surprised to see the detective turn and give him a look of distinct anger.

"Marcus I helped raise you, and this is _not _how I expect to be repaid!" he fumed, leaving Marcus to drop his head.

Suddenly the detective grabbed him, and yanked him over to one of the bullet ridden corpses that soaked in the water.

"Look, you _can't keep doing this! _You've had some scratches before but this one-... we're talking one _BIG FUCKING BANDAIDE._"

He pulled Marcus away from the body and straightened him up. He gave him and incendiary look that froze Marcus to his core.

"_It's the last time I'm saving your ass._ " he breathed, the acute anger in his voice telling Marcus just how serious he was. "_So you better do EXACTLY as I say, or you're on your own. Forever._"

Marcus looked down, feeling a mixture of shame and guilt flow through him.

The detective eyed him furiously, but his expression relaxed when it became evident that his words hit home.

"Alright man..." Marcus whispered.

The detective released his hold, and the anger subsided.

"Now get the fuck out of here, kid." he said, jabbing a thumb towards the exit.

Marcus nodded and obeyed, limping down the passage and placing a hand on the corner before looking back to the detective one last time.

The detective smiled back.

"Merry Christmas."

Marcus managed a small smile himself, and continued up the cellar and back into the night.

The detective's smile waned when Marcus disappeared, and he looked back to the bodies that littered the place.

"...this is gonna be a shitload of paperwork."


	2. Precinct Test

_Precinct Test_

5:14 PM, 8/15/06: Headquarters, Times Square

_5 years later_

Marcus was feeling good today. The announcement of his promotion had kept him elated throughout afternoon, eagerly anticipating his run through the C.I.C. obstacle course to take place twenty minutes after his shift. With the clock striking five and the paperwork already cleared with Terry, Marcus sat idly by within the bustling police station, looking his resume over but not reading anything in particular.

Except for the green bolded letters stamped on the paper that spelled **APPROVED**.

He was nervous, sure, but his anxiety was not enough to stifle the tremendous pride he felt for the occasion. To be accepted into the ranks of New York's _truly _finest, the elite of the New York City's Police Department. It was almost overwhelming.

Here's a small history lesson; Four years he had worked on the beat since Terry made his deal with him, now patrolling the streets he once ruled as Harlem's premier drug kingpin. If only for three days, though, but Marcus tried not to think too much about that.

His arrest record was outstanding, second only to one. Though he had been criticized for his… _unique _approach to law enforcement, it was an undisputed fact that Marcus Reed was one of the best police officers the department had seen in a long time. However, the title of best cop ever was reserved to the living legend known as Terence Higgins, the man who taught Marcus everything he knew from pinpointing a perp's kneecap with his 38. customized sidearm to basic algebra in the seventh grade.

Admittedly, math was never really Marcus's thing.

His mind returned to the present, and Marcus couldn't help emitting a soft chuckle.

"It's crazy ain't it?" he said more to himself than Terry, who was a little less than enthused about Marcus using his desk as a chair. He eyed the up and coming police officer with a raised eyebrow.

Marcus was still dressed in his blue uniform, an outfit he never had taken a liking to but grudgingly obliged to wear. He never threw a fit about it, but he would always grimace with a small amount of disgust every time he opened the locker to put it on.

"Who ever thought _I'd _be making into the Organized Crime Unit?"

Whether Terry mistook this statement for cockiness or simply wanted to tease, Marcus didn't know, but Terry leaned back in his chair and replied in a level tone.

"You know, I remember when you couldn't even wipe your own ass without my help, hotshot, so don't get cocky. You ain't a detective yet."

Marcus got to his feet and faced the detective, putting on his most sincere expression.

"C'mon. You know I'm gon' _blaze _through those qualification tests. Like _that_!" he finished, with the snap of a finger.

Another figure stepped into the room.

"_Oh_" came an accusing female voice from behind. Marcus turned to face his superior walking towards him. "You're in that much of a hurry to get out of my unit, huh?"

She was dressed in fashionable brown leather boots, a blue knee high skirt and a V-neck shirt, and her blond her was short and done up nice and pretty. It wasn't for the occasion however, she just always had a mind for fashion.

"_Lt. Dixon_!" Marcus started, and immediately straightened up. "Nah, I-I-I was jus-"

"Save it." she said dismissively, waving it off. She smiled and patted Reed on the shoulder. "I'm happy for you. You're going to make a hell of a detective."

With those words she continued past, leaving Marcus feeling a little air headed. Terry snapped him back to reality with a start.

"Well hurry and polish your badge, or you're gonna be late." he said, and ushered him to the stairs.

The two stepped down to the station's lobby, and right into the face of a man who deflated much of Marcus's enthusiasm almost immediately. Victor Navarro, the Chief, was giving a police officer his undivided attention until he caught sight of the descending pair, and settled his gaze on Marcus.

Marcus's smile died when his eyes met Vic's. The pair stopped as Victor approached, leaving the police officer forgotten.

He was a seasoned looking man; graying, mustachioed. He'd look almost normal had it not been for the two large marbles that adorned his eye sockets, which could fixate someone with the most intense stare anyone had ever seen. Right now he was giving Marcus the full treatment.

"What's this?" he chuckled as he sized up Marcus. "Gangsters dressed as cops, eh?"

Marcus and Terry exchanged a glance.

"It ain't Halloween, _Terry."_

"We talked about this, Victor. My contract, remember?"

Victor's brow furrowed.

"God damn Terry, you _know _I don't like greenhorns on my unit."

Marcus couldn't help but feel that there was more to Victor's disdain than simply his own inexperience.

"Marcus has been on the beat for four years now." Terry reasoned, although Navarro still looked displeased. "Just aced all the C.I.C stuff, it's all done."

"_Yeah, yeah, yeah_…" he mouthed off sounding clearly uninterested. "Just remember, he's your responsibility_." _He leaned in, as if to add more distinction to his words.

"¿_Comprende_?"

A little put off, Terry hesitated momentarily before simply nodding and letting him pass by.

"You got it, Vic."

Marcus glared at Navarro as he disappeared. Something about that guy really got under his skin.

They continued through the lobby and to the elevator. Marcus hit the button and the doors rolled open.

"This is it kid, all you gotta is pass huh?"

Marcus stepped in and turned to face the detective.

"Try not to shoot yourself in foot."

The doors rolled closed, and Marcus descended into the underground training course.

________________________________________________________________________

Stepping through the door, Marcus found himself in a straightforward maze of blue plywood walls, centered in a giant cavernous basement beneath the headquarters. The air was cool, and every footstep echoed throughout the space. His first passage opened up into a large room, where a red mat sat with an erect punching bag in its center with caution tap decals placed around it.

The intercom sounded throughout the basement.

"_Son!_" called a voice that sounded distinctly of a drill sergeant's kind of banter, "This is your C.I.C detective qualification test! If you want your golden shield, you're going to have to make me _smile. _I want you to move over to that area marked with the caution tape."

The announcement cut off, and Marcus swaggered over to the punching bag. The voice piped up once more.

"This is the Combat Test; see those practice dummies?"

Marcus zeroed in on his polyester opponent.

"Let's start with some light jabs, shall we?"

He landed three consecutive blows and the bag exploded into fluffy debris. The gate barring the way to the next room receded.

"Alright greenhorn, move on to the next area! Just step onto the caution stripes…"

He walked up to the next dummy.

"Alright, now show me some slower, more powerful strikes."

The voice was only treated to one; the bag decimated in a single blow.

"Now keep it moving, _next area_!"

________________________________________________________________________

A few more dead punching bags and a hopped fence later, Marcus found himself facing livelier foes.

"Not bad!" the voice congratulated. "Now let me see you grapple and throw, boy!"

Marcus's enemy was decked out in a fully padded suit of armor, the kind that were used in K-9 training. The man was swaying left and right, but not as some kind of tactical motion. More like a _I really wish I weren't here right now_ kind of way.

Marcus walked over to him, grasped the football helmet like rungs that protected his face and give him a half hearted push. The man toppled to the floor, defeated.

The gates receded, and Marcus entered another area with another doughboy standing around, back facing him.

"Time to move, without being _seen_." the voice instructed. The man standing in the room was oblivious to Marcus's presence; or so he was paid to act.

"I want you to sneak up on that guy. Crouch to move nice and quiet. Remember, if you move too fast, they'll-hear-your-_footsteps_." he finished in a dramatic tone.

Marcus ducked low, taking his steps one well placed foot at a time before reaching the guy. Marcus rose from his crouch and locked an arm around his neck in a chokehold. Although he was supposed to "take out" the guy, to save time and effort he opted to simply tap him on the head.

The doughboy crumpled to the ground, as Marcus's most recent victim.

In the next room, the doughboy had his fists raised in a half assed kind of fighting stance.

"_Hoo_, it's back to some combat now! Get your guard up; block!"

The pillows that were thrown in Marcus's direction were hardly worth the trouble of blocking, but he obeyed. After three hits the doughboy laid off, and the gate to the next space opened.

Three more goons were situated in here, one standing before him with his back turned and two more meandering around the back.

"_Alright_. Let's see what you're made of before we finish in here. Put down these jokers and I'll get you some extra points!"

Marcus stepped into the arena and brought his elbow down on the first guy. The two men in the back lumbered forward, and Marcus went to town on their pillowy bodies. His punches couldn't be felt through their protective padding, but with the first guy biting the dust it became apparent that they had trouble getting back up on their own. With his comrade down, the second man threw himself into an awkward charge and was caught, lifted and hurled into a single water barrel, his posterior wedged in too tightly to escape.

Wiping his hands off, Marcus turned down the final passage and went to the door.

**PASSED**

**RADIAL ATTACK TEST:** Yes

**DIRECTIONAL ATTACK TEST: **Yes

**COMBAT THROW TEST: **Yes

**ENEMIES DEFEATED: **5

**LETHAL TAKEDOWNS (Bad Cop): **0

**HITS TAKEN: **0

**EXCESS TIME: **0

"Very nice results son! That's what I like to see!"

________________________________________________________________________

Marcus went through the door, and found himself in yet another blue walled maze, this time with plywood skyscraper backdrops placed here and there. Ahead of him, a gate barred passage and caution tape decals were placed in front of it.

"_This_, is the _Run-and-Gun course_! I want you to move over to that area, marked with the caution tape."

He did what he was told, and the voice returned.

"You ready, _rookie_? First, show me how fast you can _draw_!"

Marcus whipped out his piece with speed, a Walther P99 specially outfitted for .38 _Super _ammunition. The bullet of choice for shooting competitions, but almost never seen in law enforcement. Naturally, they were hollow point.

"Alright, _smart guy_. Time to aim at a target. Then, fire away!"

Further down the passage human shaped plywood targets appeared in the windows of the backdrops. Marcus raised his pistol and blasted them all in quick succession. The gate receded.

"If you run out of ammo… you need to _reload_! Otherwise, you'll be in a _world_ of _hurt_!"

Marcus ejected his clip and slapped in a new one. Satisfied, the voice ushered him down the passage. It turned to the right, and caution stripes decorated the ground around the corner.

"Now let's see you hug-that-wall! I bet you know _all _about _that_, huh!?"

…_why?_

Marcus planted his back to the wall.

"Now lean around that corner and take your shot!"

Down the passage more cut-outs appeared, this time brandishing bean bag guns. Marcus brought his pistol around the corner and fired as bean bags thudded against the wall. Five targets blown to oblivion later, and the next gate receded.

"Ok, _now _you can leave that wall."

Marcus stepped through the passage and turned left to find a hurtle put in his way.

"Ready to get flashy? Let's see if you can dive!"

He sprinted, dived and rolled clean over the obstacle. The room beyond was blocked with another gate with caution stripes placed before it.

On the caution stripes, a pack of grenades were piled together.

"_Al-right_, pick up the grenades; you're going to do some damage!"

_You'll know that the world has truly gone to hell when M-67 frag grenades become standard issue for police._

Marcus holstered his pistol. Ducking a foot beneath a grenade, he kicked it into the air and caught it.

"Those grenades are _live_, son! You know what to do with them."

More targets appeared in the room, situated behind backdrops shaped as cars.

Marcus pulled the pin, lobbed the grenade behind one and ducked beneath the gate. Seconds passed, then the room was blasted apart in scattered plywood debris.

"_Ha-ha-ha-HA! _Just like back in 'nam! I can almost smell the _Napalm_!"

Strolling past the burning wreckage, Marcus continued through the course and found himself standing at another gate, with more skyscraper backdrops beyond.

"Sometimes, shooting up the place isn't necessary! Show me some _Precision Aim_!"

_Alright now._

He closed his eyes, cricked his neck and flexed his fingers.

When they opened, the targets popped up, and Marcus retrieved rounded and aimed his pistol down the sights in a fraction of a second. Time slowed to a crawl as Marcus poured every ounce of his essence into his gun, as he felt and calculated every physical force that would affect his shot. His pistol and him were one with the universe, a single entity, an extension of himself.

In this state of mind, his aim was perfect.

The voice was saying something, but in a world set at a fraction of its speed it came across as nothing but a drawling slur. Marcus fixated the red dots placed at the heads of each target and planted a hole in all of them dead center, each exploding in sequence. The plywood rained to the ground together, all of the targets destroyed before the remains of even the first one managed to reach the floor.

Marcus let himself relax, and time slowly returned to its normal pace.

"…gggggggooooOOODDD _DAMNIT, SON!_" the voice barked angrily. "_What the hell did I tell you_!? Do you consider a _headshot_ to be 'non-lethal'?"

Marcus had missed that little detail.

"Try again, _Einstein_!"

One more target appeared in a window, and Marcus aimed for the green dot placed on its arm instead. It spun with the bullet and fell backwards.

"_Ok_. Let's have a little fun before we wrap up here. Next area; take these targets _down_!"

Marcus continued right down the passage, which led into a small labyrinth of plywood sets of barbershops, grocery stores and red brick buildings. As he progressed, targets would appear in windows, behind dumpsters and barrels and around corners, and with civilian detriments scattered here and there. Marcus went through the final stretch, and to put it simply he shot all of the targets.

With the last of the targets dealt with, Marcus headed for the door.

**PASSED**

**WALL HUGS:** Yes

**GUN DIVES: **Yes

**TARGETS DESTROYED: **30

**NEUTRALIZING SHOTS (Good Cop): **12

**HEAD SHOTS (Bad Cop): **5

**CIVILIANS SHOT: **0

**EXCESS TIME: **0

"Nice shooting, officer! You passed with _flying-fuckin'-colors!… Happy?"_

________________________________________________________________________

Through the final door Marcus found himself staring down a long underground roadway. A few paces ahead of him sat a police cruiser.

The voice echoed distinctly throughout.

"_Ok! _So long you can show me you can _drive_, you just might get your shield! Now get your sorry ass in the car so we can get started."

Getting in, he buckled up and got comfortable.

"Ok, now step on the _gas _and get rolling."

Marcus eased on the accelerator and rolled down the passage. Ahead, a sharp turn left awaited.

"Good. Now _yank _on that _hand-brake_!"

He turned, yanked, and spun directly into a wall of water barrels.

"_Did I tell you you could stop, twinkle toes_!? Get your ass _moving_!"

Readjusting himself in his seat, he pulled out of the mess of plastic and continued through the turn. Another turn directly right was ahead, but Marcus decided to simply ease around the corner safely. A stretch of road laid ahead, with five moving taxi drones making a baseless triangle blocking the way.

"Next, let's hear your siren! Cop's best friend, right?"

Marcus flicked the siren on and the taxis pulled away from the center of the road to let him pass. Continuing through, Marcus followed the road right and found long stretches of concrete walls lining the sides of the road.

"Now pull out your pistol and shoot down the targets as you drive!"

…_What the fuck kind of training course is this? _Marcus thought as he drove near the walls, blowing holes in every moving target that appeared behind them.

"Nice shot!… for a _rookie_."

Marcus turned another left and made his way through.

"Hoo! Well done, greenhorn!"

Down this road a taxi sat parked on each side of the roadway. As Marcus approached, they pulled out into the road ahead of him.

"O-K! Imagine up ahead is some joker that doesn't want to stop. You PIT that sonuvabitch into next week!"

Marcus sped up to the first taxi and connected his bumper with its rear tire. The taxi spun, flipped, flew, landed and exploded on the side of the road. Not exactly the intended outcome. He was significantly more careful with the next taxi and only lightly tapped it, causing it to whirl wildly into a concrete wall. Thankfully, that one didn't blow up.

He drove into another turn and weaved around some barrels scattered across the road. In the next turn, Marcus found himself racing down the final stretch. Caution barriers were placed left and right on the road.

"Watch out for the people now! _Don't you hit any_!"

Pulled along a motorized rail system, giant pedestrian signs cut into rectangles strolled left and right across the road. Marcus swerved around them, narrowly missing the last one pushing along a stroller before making it through.

"Smooth driving, school boy!"

The road stopped at a large garage door.

"Guess what rookie. You're _done_. Exit the vehicle and head for the door."

Marcus eased the car to a stop before the door and stepped out.

_Finally._

**PASSED**

**HAND BRAKE TURNS: **0

**SUCCESFUL PIT MANEUVERS: **2

**TARGETS SHOT: **3

**CIVILIANS HIT: **0

**OBSTACLES HIT: **5

**EXCESS TIME: **6

"If it were up to _me_, you wouldn't be leaving here with mediocre scores like _that_!…but it ain't. So… get going."

________________________________________________________________________

Terry headed for Victor's office ten or so stories above the qualifications course. He let himself in, and found Victor sitting at his desk and busy with the phone.

"No, honey, the locker's at _Grand Central_. No, the new ones."

Terry placed his report on Victor's desk and meandered around, looking at the many trophies and posters that decorated the office, like his marksmanship plaque, the portrait of Latin American jazz musician El Jefe and several of his commendations and rewards he won through the years.

"Yeah, suit's in there." he continued. When it became apparent she still didn't understand he repeated it in Spanish.

"Alright, you know what? Don't bother. Ok, love you too." he finished, and hung up the phone.

Terry looked at Victor.

"Why don't you just move into the city, Vic?" he humored him. "Save yourself a train ride."

Victor looked at him like he was crazy.

"On my salary? You're kidding, right?"

The discussion was cut short when Marcus opened the door and stepped in. Terry turned to face him.

"Looks like you still have both feet kid."

Marcus was holding a clipboard. Grinning, he handed it over to him.

Terry gave it a quick look over, and his face immediately brightened.

"Was I fucking right about this guy or what?" he proclaimed, showing the chief the scores. He didn't look happy.

Turning back to Marcus, he gave him a congratulatory pat on the back.

"Denzel ain't got nothing on you kid."

"_Oh, for Christ's sake, Terry! _How hard is it to _shoot a target_?" Victor drawled. He leaned into his desk businesslike and placed his hands together. "I want you to take him into the streets; see if he can handle himself in plain clothes and deal with real perps."

Victor leaned back.

"Do the whole drill. Otherwise, no shield. ¿_Comprende_?"

Terry nodded and turned to Marcus.

"Okay Boy Wonder, time to kiss your costume goodbye."

They walked to the door and Marcus stepped out.

"Grab your street gear, then pick up an unmarked cruiser at the garage. I'll meet you outside."

"Yo, I got your _Boy Wonder _right here." he said, and flipped Terry the bird as he went to the steps.

A moment passed.

"…what the hell was that for?"


	3. Locker and Garage

_Locker and Garage_

5:55 PM, 8/15/06: Headquarters, Times Square

For the first time since his recruitment to the service, Marcus could look upon his uniform with a smile. It looked far better on a hangar, left to be forgotten in his locker than on his person any day.

His new outfit consisted of baggy jeans, a white hoodie, sneakers and a leather jacket, its back marked with a vicious looking red symbol. Street gear never felt more comfortable. His once clean cut hair was also now adorned with six thick cornrows, grown quickly for the interest of time.

Marcus ran a hand around his head, appreciating the wonders of his Insta-Hair tonic. He gave the locker door an enthusiastic slam and crossed over to the window of the impound garage attendant.

"Reed."

Antoine looked in his late thirties and spoke in a voice that was gravelly and thick. His hair was slicked back in that cheesy Italian fashion, though the man never really played the part.

Marcus placed his pistol in his concealed chest harness and his radio in his left pocket. He gave the attendant an acknowledging nod of the head.

"Sup Ant'. I need an unmarked today."

The attendant started punching in the numbers into his keyboard, then raised Marcus an eyebrow when the request finally sunk in.

"Doing some undercover work?" he asked.

"Full-time." Marcus said with a grin.

Antoine smiled back. "Well hell Reed, congratulations! Or should I say, _Detective Reed_?"

"Almost man, almost." Marcus replied as Antoine finished punching in the numbers. "Still gotta prove myself; out in the streets."

With the tap of the enter key, Antoine looked back up to the officer. "I don't know what old Navarro thinks you still have left to prove; you're better than any one of us!"

The sudden report of tire on asphalt down the hall announced that the car was ready in the lot.

"Well, hey, you'll do fine. Nothing to worry about."

Marcus gave him a salute as he made his way down the single corridor and through its double doors. Inside of the underground lot, his black unmarked sat parked and ready before him.

"_Service_."

He let himself in, adjusted the rear view, buckled his seatbelt, changed the clip in his .38 and accelerated up the ramp leading into Times Square.


	4. Navigating Traffic

_Navigating Traffic_

6:03 PM, 8/15/06: Times Square

Lights, glitz, hustle and bustle and all sorts of shit was Marcus's most effective way of describing the epileptic's worst nightmare known as Times Square. Giant neon billboards, colorful and vibrant were on full display in New York's most famous intersection, advertisements for soda, upcoming movies, credit cards and aphrodisiac deodorant shift and shimmer on the sides of buildings, radiating multicolored light upon the crowds that milled below.

Marcus's car pulled out of the underground garage, merging into the thick traffic that perpetually congested the place. He made his way around the side of the building and parked by the curb, facing south.

Terry was waiting for him on the sidewalk, and was about to get into the car when another police officer called to him across the street.

"Hey, Terry! ¿No te gusta la comida de mi mujer?" he asked.

The detective acknowledged him across the street, and replied just as fluently.

"Para decirte la verdad, Manny! No, but we'll talk later!"

The other officer waved and continued on his way, and Terry let himself into the car.

"Alright kid, let's cruise."

Marcus pulled into the chaotic intersection, and Terry settled himself in. The inching down the street went by silently, and the car reached its first stoplight.

"...talk to your father lately?" Terry asked.

Reed's elation deflated at the mention of his Pops. His voice dropped noticeably.

"Nah man."

The light flashed green, and Marcus continued along with the traffic.

"I saw him a couple weeks back." Terry continued, unassuming. "He wanted to see you."

"Yeah." Marcus muttered, sounding completely disinterested. "Well, Pop can call me if he wants to."

Terry looked at him. He could tell Marcus wanted to avoid the subject.

"Besides, he ain't the one out here watching my back."

The car stopped before another red light, and Marcus tapped his fingers on the steering wheel.

"C'mon Marcus." Terry said, as friendly as he could. "We're practically family, right?"

Marcus glanced at the detective.

His mentor, his friend.

The man who taught him everything.

"...right."

Terry smiled, and gave Marcus a passive pat on the shoulder. "Alright, now let me see you _drive_, huh?"

He punched in a set of coordinates into Reed's navigational computer.

"Here, check your GPS."

Marcus looked down at the circle on the small computer screen placed on the dashboard, that rotated like a compass with Marcus's every turn. A green arrow pointed in the direction of the address.

"Think you can beat the clock?" Terry dared, a small grin appearing on his face. "Three minutes."

The officer raised him an eyebrow, and then smirked himself.

"...then step on it."

Marcus floored it, and then immediately slammed on the brakes when he nearly fender bendered the van in front of him. He remembered that he was in Times Square; New York's premier traffic hellhole. His burst of speed was cut short.

Marcus sat dumbfounded in his car for an entire minute, stumped by his predicament. He looked to Terry for a clue.

The detective gave him a condescending smirk, and gave Marcus his answer.

"You want to get through traffic?" he asked rhetorically. He pointed a finger at the switch beneath the radio. "How about using that _siren_, huh?"

Marcus looked at the switch as if it were completely alien. He looked back at Terry.

"Thanks."

He flipped the switch, and the car's siren blared throughout the intersection. Vehicles made their way to the sides of the street, and the lights and concrete of New York City raced by as Marcus accelerated down a traffic free 7th Avenue. A few blocks later and he pulled right into West 37th and raced through.

"Alright boy scout, you're making good time."

The green arrow on the GPS became a solitary green square. Marcus turned left onto 9th Avenue, and rolled to stop in front of what was apparently a biker bar, as evidenced by the rows of motorcycles parked in its lot.

Right on top of the green square.

"Okay, you made it." Terry said, unbuckling his seat belt but making no motion to get out. "Just step out of the car."

"_Oh C'mon, Terry_ ." Marcus whined bitterly, realizing this to be Victor's test. "Don't make me jump through these hoops!"

"Just go through the motions kid." the detective replied calmly. "Keeps Navarro off our backs, right?"

Marcus rolled his eyes.

"Yeah, yeah... _okay_."

Terry chuckled. "Keep you phone on, and I'll run you through a few basics."

He pulled out his cell and dialed Reed's number. Marcus's phone chirped to life, and he completed the connection.


	5. Street Test

_Street Test_

6:08 PM, 8/15/06: Uncle Pete's Pancake Palace

"Well what the hell are you waiting for? Get the hell out of the car."

Marcus stepped out into the cold New York City night air. He adjusted his jacket and stepped up to the bar.

"Alright, let's see your frisking hunches. Pick three males and pad them down for contraband."

Luckily, three males just happened to be standing outside the bar.

"Listen man, I was so good she gave me the money _back_!" one of them said. The others scoffed and waved away his boast.

Marcus approached the small group. Two Hispanics, one African American; three suspects.

The black man let out a cry of alarm as Marcus locked his arm behind his back.

"AH-... the _fuck_!?"

He had him gripped tightly as the suspect staggered on awkward footing. Marcus padded the sides of his pants and searched in his coat pockets.

"Why you gotta _incringe _on my _rights _'n' _shit_?"

Marcus turned up nothing but lint.

"Ok, you're _clean_." Marcus let him off. "Now get your ass outta here."

The man ran down the street, and Marcus turned his attention to his next prospect. He was about to give him the same procedure when he noticed the third man sway ever so uncomfortably. Wary, Marcus abandoned his first catch and grabbed hold of the nervous individual. Very little detective work turned up a few plastic bags, filled with weed.

"Uh oh, looks like _someone _caught a case."

One slapped on pair of cuffs later, and Marcus received more instructions over the phone.

"Good going. Next I want to see you inspect a car; walk over there..." Marcus watched Terry point ahead of him, at a single parked sedan in front of the bar. "...and pop the trunk."

Marcus stepped up to the car, and when he tried to open the lid he found it locked.

"When things don't work out as planned, you might need get a little... _creative_."

Reed rubbed his chin. He stole a glance down the street and saw a store still open. He walked away from the car, entered the store, and a minute later reappeared brandishing a crow bar. Returning to the trunk, he thrust the tip into the space between it and the bumper. Wedged in snug, Reed brought his foot down upon it. The trunk flew open and the iron clattered to the street.

"Well. Good job boy scout."

Marcus divulged himself with the contents of his car. Some tennis rackets, a phone book, three CDs and a suitcase filled with marijuana.

"Hey, looks like you found something..." Terry said, as he watched Marcus haul the case out of the trunk.

"Marijuana. Two kilos." he replied over the phone, taking the case back to the cruiser.

"You know, I heard some cops sell this stuff at the pawn shops." the detective said, not necessarily insinuating but simply stating a fact. "but you're going to voucher it at the precinct, right?"

Marcus stopped for a moment. He was about to ask how much it went for when two groups, one coming from the north and the other from the south met each other in front of the bar, some brandishing weapons. They didn't look too pleased to see each other.

"Woah, look at these guys; we have a few hard cases." Terry spoke over the phone as the groups began insulting each other, cricking their necks and wringing their hands."Well, you should already know there are different types of perps. There are the unarmed types; shooting these guys is a definite no-no. Then there are the perps armed with a bat or a knife or something; save you bullets unless absolutely necessary. Or my favorite, the jokers that are packing heat. It's open season on them."

One of the men stepped closer, grabbed hold of the other and pushed him into a wall. His friend tried to lay into him, but the unfortunate man's buddy stepped in to intervene. One thing lead to another, and the whole event turned into a grunting brawl.

"Whoa what's going on over there? Looks like a bar brawl." Terry pointed out. Somewhat redundantly. "I want you to crash the party. A flash of your badge should put all suspects on notice. Show me how it's done."

Marcus reached into his coat and retrieved his badge. Flashing it, he yelled "_New York Police_!"

The fight continued, undisturbed.

"When the badge doesn't do the trick, you gotta pop some ear drums. Pull out you piece, fire off a warning shot."

The blast brought the entire debacle to halt. Weapons fell to the ground in surprise, and all eyes turned to Marcus, his pistol pointed high.

"_New york, FUCKING police_." he asserted.

One by one, the suspects put their hands in there air.

"Nice shooting." Terry complimented. "Now put some cuffs on those pricks before they run for it."

One, two, three and four convicts eventually found themselves face down in the concrete, hands restrained. Marcus was about to go for the fifth, when he discovered him to be strangely absent.

"Hey Marcus, are you paying attention? One of your collars is getting away."

The screech of tires brought Marcus's attention to the sedan, which accelerated down the curb and away from the bar.

"Commandeer yourself a car and chase him down."

A blue car arrived on the scene, and Marcus fired his weapon into the air once more. The driver scrambled out of the vehicle and ran away screaming.

"...a little excessive, but it'll do." Terry commented. Marcus got inside and raced after the perp.

*CRASH*

Marcus watched the suspect slam directly into tree. He eased on the accelerator and pulled up to the smoking, wrecked vehicle.

The fat suspect rolled himself out of the doorless car. "God damn, _piece-of-shit_. Urgh!" he blathered.

"Look at this loser." came Terry's voice. "He may be useful. Don't kill'm hotshot."

The man staggered to his feet, and hobbled down the street.

"Ah shit, looks like we got a runner. Alright look, ditch your car and chase him down on foot. When you get close enough you tackle his ass to the ground."

Marcus was on him in an instant. The man hadn't even cleared two shops before Marcus threw his weight into his body, and brought him crashing down to earth. The perp coughed and wheezed under the pressure, and Marcus returned to his feet. He kicked him over onto his back.

"You best start planning your defense."

Grabbing his collar, Marcus hoisted him onto his feet, spun him around, and slapped on a pair of cuffs.

"Nice work Marcus, you passed!" the phone congratulated. "A+"

Marcus smiled slightly. _This ain't so hard_.

"Now, let's go see the King."

The smile disappeared instantly.


	6. Terry's Agenda

_Terry's Agenda_

6:25 PM, 8/15/06: The Manhattan Detention Complex

The Tombs was the nickname given to this particular jail. A fortress of a building, spanning an entire city block, it stood as "a mausoleum for the living". However grand the building looked, its early history was rife with corruption, scandal and general ineptitude to keep inmates _in_. After several reforms and reconstructions, much of the place's bad reputation ceased under a newer, tighter system of security.

Except for one cell. One cell, lavishly furnished with the kind of luxuries that every high roller hustles to obtain, a distinctly colorful contrast to the rest of the drab gray corridors that dominated the place. A throwback to the darker days of shadowy prison administration.

Reed and Higgins followed the security guard down the labyrinth of halls, to the cell specially suited to the rich tastes of a certain former drug lord. The final corridor was lined with cameras, scanning to and fro for any signs of would be escapees. The King was this block's only resident, and when Marcus caught sight of the man's eclectic room he wondered if he would ever _want_ to escape.

With a single tap of the hand, the cell door slid aside. The three stepped in, the guard dutifully standing by the door. Marcus rested his eyes on the back of the large figure of a man sitting behind a shined, finished mahogany desk.

"That will be all, Kurt." the man drolled. Nodding obediently, the guard stepped out of the cell and into the hall.

He turned in his chair, the swivel making a sound that bordered on comical and faced his guests.

"You been lookin' after my boy, Terry?" Isaiah Reed, Marcus's father asked, placing a cigarette in mouth.

Marcus stepped forward, and The King regarded his son curiously.

"I've been looking after _myself, _Pop." the officer said, cool yet firm.

Isaiah paused momentarily. He looked at his son, saw the stoic resolve in his eyes. My my, his baby boy was all grown up.

Smiling, Isaiah nodded to his son in acknowledgement. Marcus turned to sit in one of his father's many plush chairs. Terry offered The King a light.

"How you been Isaiah?" the detective asked cheerfully.

"Just doing my time." Isaiah returned, taking a drag on the cigarette and blowing the smoke into the air. "To what do I owe the honor?"

Terry retrieved a golden shield from his coat pocket.

"Thought you might want to see this."

Handing it over to The King, Isaiah looked over the inscription. He smiled, wide.

"Aha, it seems my boy is no longer just a _pawn_." he said softly. The last bit didn't do much for Marcus's opinion of the man.

"Congratulations son," he chuckled shortly, and continued. "life's full of irony, isn't it?"

Terry's phone shook to life, and he stepped aside to take the call.

"Higgins..."

Marcus rose to his feet. He crossed over the space, and held his hand open for his shield. Keeping his malicious grin, Isaiah placed Marcus's shield in his hand.

"That's quite a power, son." he said to him quietly, leaning back in his chair. "A lot of windows open to you now."

Marcus watched his father's smile lessen slightly.

"Who knows what you can do with all that… _jurisdiction_."

Terry finished with the phone, and returned his attention to The King.

"Uh, Isaiah, we gotta cut this short."

The King blew another plume of smoke skyward, and bade them farewell.

"I'll be seeing ya." he finished, turning his gaze to Marcus in particular. "Kurt, let'm out."

The guard reopened the cell, and the pair stepped back into the corridor. Further down the hall, Terry clapped a hand on Marcus's shoulder.

"You did good boy scout. You know you're the first new face in OCU in seven years?"

"Yeah…" Marcus trailed off. The news of his promotion hadn't impressed the chief, not in the slightest. He couldn't figure out what his problem was. "Seems Navarro likes to keep that unit pretty tight."

Terry sighed. "There's a reason for that, we'll talk about it. Some other time, though."

The detective continued down the hall, and Marcus followed suit.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Outside, Terry paced around the car, checking his watch warily. Marcus approached, and the detective motioned him in.

"Drive me to Mulberry and Spring; we got no time lose." he said, opening the door.

"Shit, where's the fire man?"

"C'mon Marcus, this is important. Get your ass in the car." he asserted, his tone as serious and sober as could be.

Marcus slid over the hood and let himself into the driver's side. The vehicle tore down the street with haste.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Thirty seconds later, Marcus pulled into the empty lot of a packaging plant. Setting the gear to park. Terry unbuckled, adjusted his coat and reached for his briefcase.

Honestly, Marcus hadn't noticed that he was lugging it around all night until now.

"…you gonna tell me what's up with that briefcase?" he asked cordially.

Terry paused, and looked back to Marcus.

"Sure. If you need to know."

His manner was simple, unassuming. More than likely it was nothing more than part of some deal. Marcus decided to drop it. "Nah man, it's cool."

Terry stepped out of the car, turned and leaned back in. "If I'm not out in six minutes, you come in guns blazing."

"Aiight, I got your back."

Terry shut the door, and made his way to the building. Marcus watched him enter, disappearing into the darkness within.

He checked his .38 a few times, making sure it was loaded among other things.

_I wonder if there's another gun in here._

Checking besides and under the seats, Marcus figured another pistol might be in the glove compartment. He gave the latch a flick, and the door plopped open. Inside was a magazine, some strange camera device and a pack of cigarettes, three of which flopped out of the carton and clattered to the ground.

Marcus leaned down to pick them up.

A flash of light illuminated the lot, and the packing plant exploded.

The second he heard the blast was the second the car was lifted into the air, throwing the vehicle onto its roof. It crashed into the concrete, and something hard collided with Marcus's skull. He went out like a light.

___________________________________________________________________________________

He was swimming. Swimming in darkness, in a pitch blackness that muffled the sounds of the world. In the outskirts of his subconscious, he could hear the far distant wailings of klaxons, and gradually, the darkness shifted into alternating blurs of red and blue. He could feel hands reaching for him, dragging him… somewhere. As minutes passed, the world became more real, more apparent. The sounds grew louder, the lights more distinct, and in the slightest moment of clarity Marcus jerked awake.

It was all still blurred, still hazed, but everything was coming together. He was in an ambulance, resting on some kind of bed. Someone was sitting beside him, massaging his skull with ice.

Marcus reflexively slapped the person's hand away and sat up. The motion threw him into a dizzy spell, and he collapsed back into bed.

"Urgh… w-what?"

The doctor kept him still, or at least tried to when Marcus recovered once more and practically threw him aside. Marcus clumsily got to his feet, and made his way out the back of the vehicle. He pushed the doors open and saw a menagerie of emergency vehicles gather around the lot of the packaging plant.

_The packaging plant…_

Marcus hobbled down the street towards the commotion. Police tap surrounded the lot, barring access from the street with officers keeping watch for any pedestrians. On Marcus's approach they tried to keep him away, but when Marcus caught sight of the building's smoking ruins he rushed past, knocking several officers down as he went.

He stood in the lot, staring in utter disbelief of what he beheld. The building Terry had entered was completely decimated.

"…Terry?" Nothing but the remains of the blasted building were visible. "_Nah, MAN_!"

Several police officers grabbed hold of him, trying to drag him away. Marcus let them carry him off, not knowing what to do, what to think.

A police cruiser screeched into the lot, and Victor Navarro rushed out and into the chaos. He stared at the destruction, his face a mask of inconceivable confusion.

Shaking his head in disbelief, he turned to the groups of emergency personnel. "What the hell happened here? Somebody, talk to me!"

He looked to Marcus, still being dragged away by the officers and to the wrecked unmarked vehicle still resting on its back. Victor waved them off, and held Marcus still.

"Reed? What happened here? Where's Terry!?"

Marcus could only stare at him, baffled. His gaze returned to the blasted building.

Victor stole a glance at the wreckage, and understood. Looking back at the officer, seething, he latched onto Marcus's collar tightly.

"_What the HELL were you two doing here, Reed_!?" he spat, rage boiling inside of him.

Shaken to reality, a still traumatized Marcus returned his spiteful anger. "Hey man, I don't know _shit_! Terry went inside and-"

"Get'm the fuck out of here." Victor finished, pinching his temple in stress.

The officers were on Marcus once more. As they took him back to the ambulance, Victor looked back at the scene.

Terence Higgins was dead.


	7. Act 1 Epilogue

_Act 1 Epilogue_

7:12 AM, 8/20/06: Headquarters, Times Square

The memory wouldn't stop replaying in his head.

Terry, the explosion, Victor...

In one fell swoop, the man who had given him so much, far more than his father ever had disappeared from his life completely. Terence Higgins had sacrificed much for family's sake, always there to help him and his father when they needed it most.

Terry had been closer than that, though. Of all the people in Marcus's fucked up, drug riddled world, he was the one person he could ever consider a friend. Someone to talk to, to relate with, to be guided by.

When he had entered the service and left his shadowy past behind him, Terry had been there to help him along. Teaching him many of his own tricks, giving him a feel for how police work was _really_ done. It was thanks to him that he became one of the best.

"...feeling better?" said Lt. Dixon, placing a cup of coffee at Reed's end of the table.

Marcus lifted his head, grunting as another kink made itself apparent in his neck. "Not really..." he muttered, rubbing the spot tentatively .

Dixon looked at the forlorn officer. "I'm sorry Marcus."

Reed returned his hand to the table, not looking at her or anything in particular. "Yeah," he replied, his tone as crestfallen as he felt. "me too."

"It wasn't your fault," she continued, trying her best to alleviate him. "forensics says it was a gas leak."

A pang of anger welled up inside of him. He knew it wasn't just an accident.

"_Bull shit_."

Dixon stepped around the desk, taking her seat.

"Look, I know that you and Terry were close, Marcus, but you need to let this go."

Marcus sat up in his chair, resting his gaze on Dixon.

"It's Navarro's business now; he's not going to let you touch it."

Reed huffed in indignation. "No more OCU, huh?"

"..well," Dixon trailed, knowing full well that his transferal was terminated with the death of Terence. "maybe one day, but for now you're back here with me, working street crime."

Marcus began to rest his head on the table once more, when a troubling thought hit home. He sat back up and regarded the lieutenant.

"I'm _not_ putting those blues back on." he asserted.

"Relax, it's plain clothes duty." she dismissed, smiling. "You get to keep your shield, as long as you play _nice_."

Marcus rose to his feet in an instant. "Fuck that. I need to find out what _really _happened." He turned and made for the door.

Dixon had never seen the officer act like this. "Marcus, I'm trying to help you here!"

He looked back at her, not sure what to think.

"Crime's been on the rise all over the city, so please," she asked, deciding to give Marcus something productive to focus on. "do me a favor, get out there and collar me some perps, ok?"

Marcus kept her gaze for a few moment, and slowly turned back to the door and let himself through.

"Yes maaaam..."

___________________________________________________________________________________

There he stood, on the steps of the precinct building, facing the streets of New York City.

Now a detective, Marcus made his own work. His pay roll was now calculated by the amount of criminals he managed to bring in, not the amount of hours he spent patrolling the streets. This kind freedom was new, yet refreshing. It was now up to him to track the criminals down, and make the busts.

Much like what his father said, he was "no longer just a pawn."

Marcus retrieved the badge from his coat pocket, wiping a thumb across the gold colored steel.

**POLICE**

**DETECTIVE**

**Street Crime Unit**

**SCU**

His shield was his authority, his jurisdiction. With it, he commanded the cooperation of the citizens of this city. He now wielded the same power that Terry had used to become the best. Everything he fought for, his duty to the city and his knowledge were now Marcus's burden to bear.

"Gonna make you proud, Terry."

He placed the shield in his coat pocket, but not before flashing it to a particularly nice looking car across the street.

___________________________________________________________________________________

Thirty minutes had passed since Marcus began his leisurely cruise, and already he had to put a bullet in about six different pairs of legs; two belonging to a brawling couple, one to a serial arsonist and the last three to a group of violent vegetarians vandalizing a butcher's meager deli.

Marcus's general mode of operation was to shoot the perp, slap on the cuffs, call for backup to the scene and continue on his way. Crude, certainly, but it had results. It was a benefit of being a detective; not having to take the prick back to the precinct for processing. He would just leave all the boring stuff to his clean-up crew, and all of the "career points" would, of course, go to him.

He had to admit. This was turning out to be much more fun than he first predicted. Although, admittedly, it seemed a tad meager. Until he was given the green light to investigate a prospective, larger criminal movement, he was left to do this. Proved to be a good stress reliever, though.

Marcus's phone chirped to life as he left his latest batch of criminals cuffed and tasting concrete. Walking up to his "police vehicle", he answered the call.

"Reed."

The voice on the other side was seasoned, throaty, and its speech had an awkward rhythm to it.

"Hello, Marcus. We need to talk about Terry. Now."

The detective froze on the spot. "Who the fuck is this?"

"Meet me at the FBI, _parking garage_. On the double _alone_." and with that, the line cut, and Marcus was left with a dead tone. He looked at the phone, bewildered. Whoever that man was, he knew something about what happened that night.

_A lead_.

Marcus hopped in his car with haste, and tore down the street.

___________________________________________________________________________________

He turned left onto East 89th Street, against traffic, sure, but Marcus was in too much of a rush to pay that much mind to traffic laws. Besides, in his position, he was practically _above _them.

The garage sat on the left, it's roll up door smattered with graffiti and battered with use and age. Completely unassuming. Marcus swung his vehicle hard into the curb, somehow managing to park perfectly. He stepped out, approached the garage, and it rolled open for him like the most mysterious thing in the world.

_Theatrics. Great._

With no other real options, Marcus entered the garage and headed down its slope, the door rolling closed behind him like the most mysterious thing in the world.

The place was dark, dank and chilly. Plenty foggy, too. The perfect shadowy meeting place.

Marcus walked through the garage, and eventually caught sight of the lone figure leaning against the wall in the back, almost completely concealed in darkness.

"Hello detective." the same voice he heard on the phone sounding through the din. The figure stepped out of the darkness and into the glow of one of the garage's cheap fluorescent lights, brandishing a cigarette. He looked to be in his upper fifties, late sixties. He was graying, sporting aviators and wearing a tan rain coat, not unlike the kind Terry often wore. "Gabriel Whitting. FBI."

Marcus knew how federal agents worked, the kind of arrogant cockiness that they commonly flaunted around like they were the police's untouchable superiors. Unfortunately, that was often the case.

"Feds," the detective muttered, stepping forward to the agent. "why am I not surprised."

The agent apparently took an amount of offense to Reed's attitude, and responded thusly. "Oh, Mr. _hotshot_, perhaps I should just go home, kick off my shoes, have a nice cup of cocoa because, it sounds like you got the case figured out!"

Marcus frowned. Mother fucker got him there.

"Would I be here if I did? Educate me." he surrendered, folding his arms.

"Indeed. For the past two years, I've been working with the OCU trying to take down New York's top crime syndicates." he took a drag on his cigarette, and then frowned slightly. "But things always go wrong. Stake outs go cold, covers get blown…"

"Sounds like you just suck at your job." Reed remarked with a chuckle. The detective certainly took offense to that.

"I was on the job when the best part of you was running down your mother's _leg_, detective."

That certainly shut Marcus up. Also made him feel a little sick.

"Anyways," the detective continued, stepping past Marcus as he spoke. Reed followed behind him. "we figured there's got to be a mole, in the department detective Higgins was on to something. He had evidence, was ready to name names."

Gabriel stopped, and Marcus turned to him.

"_That's _what he had in that briefcase, huh?" he said quietly. "So what the fuck happened?"

The agent turned to himself in thought. "There's obviously a conspiracy at play, a set-up. I believe," he trailed slightly, pointing at Marcus. "you can help me find out who's behind it."

"And how do you figure that?"

"Terry Higgins. He asked me to bring you in should, anything go wrong." Gabriel took another drag.

"Look," Marcus returned. "I wanna know the mother fuckers as much as anybody, but… I ain't even got a hunch! I mean, 'case Terry didn't mention it I'm pretty new here…"

"That's why you're _perfect_!" Gabriel assured, "Detective Reed, see, we all know who's on the take. Anybody could be the bad guy and that's the catch. You gotta do this alone, outside of your official duties."

Marcus scoffed. "No support, huh?"

"You arrest, _anyone_, connected with this investigation I'll make sure they do not pass go. Gather enough evidence on the mole and we will _bury him_, _together _in a deep dark cell!" he finished, dropping the cigarette and crushing it with his foot.

"…have we got a deal?

_Work with a crazy old federal agent, take on a myriad of vicious bad guys on a solo mission to dismantle the largest criminal networks in New York City just to learn the identity of one dirty cop?_

Marcus considered the offer.

"Where do I start, man?"

Gabriel smiled. "We know, that these four crime syndicates have been in contact with the mole. You shake them down…" he said, finger up to help establish his conviction. "…you will find Terry's killer."

He reached into his coat, "I've collected some details," and produced a folder in his hand. "rather scanty I'm afraid, but, they should get you started."

Marcus took the folder and peered into its contents. A single cassette tape was attached inside, with dozens of photos and papers stacked in with it. Marcus took the tape, studying it momentarily.

"Yo, Gabriel-" he began, but one quick look around the garage revealed the agent to be missing. Vanished, without a trace.

Marcus blew out a bit of air.

"Man, I hate this cloak and dagger shit." he muttered, and turned back to the garage exit. It reopened, and reclosed, like the most mysterious thing in the world.


	8. Magdalena Intro

_Magdalena Intro_

Marcus plopped the folder onto his desk, and flicked on the lamp. He placed the cassette player down, setting it aside and retrieved the tape from his pocket.

Open, place, close, play. Gabriel's voice came once more.

"The Magdalena Cartel, is the city's prime coke syndicate."

He flipped open the folder, studying snuff shots of some dead drug dealers, plastic bags scattered around their corpses.

"Even conservative estimates have these guys running seventy five percent of the five boroughs' flow."

He sifted through the pictures, and found an FBI confidential memorandum detailing the rise of drug distribution in the city.

"It's a shadowy organization, leadership, _unknown_… but, we're certain the top dog lives in Manhattan so's he can keep a close eye on distribution. Now, before Terry died, he said he made the acquaintance of one Teresa Castillo, known around town as Mother Teresa."

He picked up another file, labeled Person of Interest with a picture of an early thirties, late forties Hispanic woman and details of criminal affiliation, date of birth and name.

"I met the _real _Mother Teresa once on a mission in Cambodia,"

Another picture inside, with Gabriel decked out in tactical gear posing with a smiling elderly woman.

"you'd never know it by looking at her, but a really funny woman! I should write a book."

Last piece of documentation in the folder was a newspaper clipping, headed **Benefactress** **Adds Shelters.**

"Anyways, she's a rich socialite, runs shelters all over the city. Terry believed she had information to help us crack the cartel."

Marcus closed the folder placed it in his drawer.

"You can find her, at the Wellness Clinic in Spanish Harlem."


	9. Teresa's Dare

_Teresa's Dare_

7:31 PM, 8/22/06: Wellness Clinic

A storm was approaching. Rumbles of thunder reverberated through the streets.

It was closing time, and Ms. Castillo had just finished locking the door to the building. She was about to enter her limousine, bearded lackey opening the door for her when an unfamiliar individual spoke up from behind.

"Ms. Castillo? I need a word with you about the Magdalena Cartel."

She turned to face this enquiring person. Not recognizing him, she waved him away.

"I'm sorry, I am a busy woman," she mouthed off, preparing to enter the vehicle once more. "if you're a reporter looking for another-"

"Detective Reed." he replied calmly, displaying his badge. "New York Police."

She paused, "Ohh…" and turned back to the detective again. "…I see. Look, officer, I've grown weary of talking to the police. No matter how many times I complain about the dealers, nothing is ever done. You just write your reports and yes me away!"

Her manner was animated, and her tone was clearly annoyed.

"Well I ain't like that lady." he said, speaking nothing but the truth. "I come from the kind of places you're trying to help."

Teresa looked him up and down, sizing him up, and raised him an eyebrow.

"Is that so?…" she asked sweetly as a car sped down the road, stopping barely a block away. "…then why is that dealer still up there on that corner?"

Marcus looked to where she was pointing, and watched a man standing near an open alley approach the lingering sedan. There was a quick exchange, and the car sped off into the night.

"Get him _off _my street, and I don't mean just shoo him away like your fellow officers; I mean, _permanently_."

She turned back to the limo. Marcus nodded once.

"Aiight. I think I can do that," he said lightly. Drizzle began to fall, another rumble sounding through the street "but don't you go _nowhere_. I'll be _right_, _back_."

Teresa watched him head down the street towards the dealer in question. A small smile developed on her face.

"Ay homie! Lemme' holla at you for a minute!" he called, waving for the dealer's attention.

"Yo!" the dealer called back, his accent thickly Hispanic. Looking down, he searched himself. "Wat you nee' man? P-bag? Twenty-sag? Ounce?…or what?"

He looked up, and found himself staring down the barrel of Marcus's .38.

Lightning flashed again, the resultant thunder more prominent than before.

"For you to bounce the _fuck outta' here and don't look back_."

The dealer looked dumbstruck. "You are a _cop_ man? _FUG YOU_!" he cried, very clumsily and very stupidly bringing his pistol to bear. He never had the chance to use it.

The blast seemed to have stirred the alley into commotion. Yells of surprise, the scuffling of footsteps, the opening and slamming of doors. Another group of men appeared out of the alley, turning to Marcus, and all brandishing guns.

'_It's open season on them…'_

The gunmen tried to open fire. Two of them didn't have ammo in their weapons, and the third guy was too busy trying to figure out how to get his to work. Three subsequent blasts and three subsequent thuds had them on the ground, grasping their bloody shins in agony.

Marcus turned into the alley, more fools spilling out of doorways and popping out of windows, and one by one falling as Marcus rushed down the alley.

"I tried to be peaceful! Y'all forced my hand!"

Further down the passage, and the "gunmen" finally started figuring how to get their guns to actually work. Shots were sent Marcus's way, but cover was hardly necessary; these men couldn't land a shot on the broadside of a warehouse. Bullets aimed for Marcus were plentiful and flew everywhere around him, bullets aimed for the dealers were few and hit home with unwavering accuracy.

Marcus made a U-turn around the other half of the fenced alley, and ran into a rather bulbous looking man aiming a machine gun down upon him from a fire escape.

"YOU WAN' PLAY RUFF!?"

He unleashed hell upon the alley, tearing apart trash, denting dumpsters and generally being a nuisance. Marcus couldn't quite focus under the lead rain, but he did his best. The round tore through the air and blasted a sizable hole in the man's chest. His arms flew wide, his mouth agape and eyes wide with shock, and he toppled through the railing and landed in a dirty puddle.

Stepping carefully over his body, Marcus made his way up the fire escape and let himself into the building.

One look around, and Marcus could already tell. This wasn't just a front. It was a _drug lab_.

Glass walled cubicles were placed around the room, a desk sitting in each lined with funky smelling chemistry sets, colorful and intricate, and large kegs of strange chemicals were scattered throughout the room.

Marcus went through the room, and was immediately met with a group of no more than six men, all prepared to lay waste to him with automatic weapons. Suddenly, one of the guns accidentally went off and struck a container of chemicals. The room immediately ignited under a powerful blast, setting off a chain reaction of destruction throughout the place. Pausing to watch the string of explosions, Marcus casually stepped back outside. After waiting patiently for the chaos to cease, Marcus reentered a moment later.

Ash, smoke, and heat were all Marcus could possibly perceive in the blasted building. A moment passed in the smoking ruin.

_Guess I'm done._

________________________________________________________________________

Marcus lumbered into the limo, a big grin ever so apparent on his face.

"That dealer? Eheh, he ain't comin' back. You got my word on that."

Teresa was sitting across from him, and she was surprised with the detective's results. She had interest in this plucky new detective.

"I have to say, you have a rare determination for a cop. You're going to need it; the cartel is an _army_."

"You mean the Magdalenas?"

"Magdalenas, The Lords, The Curls… many names, same source. A major crack processing facility right here in the city."

"So how do I find it?"

"I've been funding the Smith projects in Alphabet city. I can tell you this; three times a day, a motorcycle courier supplies the stoop dealers, and collects their cash."

"Sounds like a runner where I'm from."

"A piece of advice; grab yourself a motorbike, or you'll lose him. He follows a route no police car could follow."

"Aiight then." and with that, Marcus stepped back out into the night. The limo pulled away, and Marcus was left with his next lead.


	10. The Messenger

_The Messenger_

11:59 AM, 8/23/06: East 5th Street

Across the street from the ghetto stoops of East 5th, Marcus was making himself inconspicuous. Granted, wearing a purple velvet robe, chains of bling, cheetah spot patterned pajama pants and a fluffy white and black felt hat didn't do much for one's anonymity, but he made it work.

He peered around one of the buildings from the left side of the street, spying a couple of gangly Hispanic thugs loitering around the stoops. As he watched, a motorcycle made its way around the corner and stopped before them. The pair delightfully skipped down to greet him.

"Hm. Looks like that old lady wasn't bull shittin'."

Drawing his pistol, Marcus decided to make his move.

The dealers made their transaction with the courier, the rider stashing the money and preparing to haul ass.

"_Hold it right there_!" Marcus ordered from the street, drawing level with the courier.

No amount of surprise was evident on his face. Grinning at him, he revved the engine before bolting past.

"Aw yeah! You know I'm comin' after you right!?" Marcus called after him, and straddled himself onto a conveniently placed motorcycle nearby. Revving its engine to life, he blasted off on a wheelie after him.

The courier hadn't even cleared the block before slamming directly into the back of a taxi. The biker flew clear over the car and smacked the ground.

Marcus was somewhat disappointed by this turn of events, but it certainly made his job a hell of a lot easier. He rolled to stop next to the pained Courier, and before the hapless prick knew what was happened Marcus pulled him off the ground, locking his arm behind his back.

"Aiight _bitch_, tell me where you were taking this or I'm going to fuck you up." he informed him less than subtly.

"_Get your hand off me_!" the courier whined pathetically. It was only after a series of painful blows were delivered to his back that he realized they were the wrong words to say. He crumpled to the ground, rasping.

"_TALK_!"

The courier was kicked onto his back, and Marcus motioned to administer some more punishment to his face when he screamed for mercy.

"STOP! PLEASE, STOP!"

The detective relinquished, and the courier caught his breath. "Easy killer, I'm just the delivery boy, ok? You want to find Rey?… at his safe house, they're watching a soccer game. I'm supposed to bring them a pizza and-…"

A look of sheer terror adorned his face, and he suddenly burst into tears.

"…_SHIT MAN! If he finds out I talked!… It's COLUMBIAN NECKTIE FOR ME MAN! MY THROAT SLIT AND MY TONGUE PULLED THROUGH IT!… oh man, I'm gonna DIE!"_

"Where?"

"_BETHUNE STREET!"_

Marcus kicked him onto his stomach, and slapped on the cuffs.

"Thanks man."

He returned to his bike and sped away. It was time to end the Magdalena Cartel once and for all.

But first, he made his way to the nearest Dominoes.


	11. Safe House

_Safe House_

12:32 PM, 8/23/06: Magdalena Cartel Hideout

The room is dingy, trash litters the floor, and the only light in the room emanates from a large television screen. Four Hispanic gentlemen curse the TV, streams of fluent Spanish mixing together into incomprehensible nonsense. Sitting on the couch, kingpin Rey, wearing tan pants, Hawaiian shirt and sporting five different gold chains was the most infuriated.

Five subsequent pounds summoned Jose to the door.

"What joo want?"

The group continued watching the game, still annoyed with their favorite players. Rey called to his buddy at the door.

"Oye chico! We 'ave something'?"

The chunky gangster turned around, holding a thin box in his hands.

"It's the pizza?" he replied simply.

The group turned to the food, and Jose popped the top. However, inside was a distinct lack of pizza, replaced with a small… something. Rey peered closer.

"Chico…" he said, then realization began to set in. "…that ain't no _fucking PIZ-"_

Boom went the pizza, slam went the door, and in rolled Marcus Reed, pointing a gun every which way. His hair was designed in Zulu knots, his leather jacket replaced with the more traditional cotton variety.

"Police! Get your ass on the floor, _now_! The Magdalenas are over!"

The blast temporarily blinded and deafened the group, leaving everyone to stagger around helplessly. Rey headed for the kitchen, lucky to have enough foresight to close his eyes before the blast. "Magdalena!? Go get that pendejo!" he cried, pushing one of his oblivious buddies into the room as he went.

Marcus was after him, blowing a hole in every pair of legs he passed in his pursuit. He maneuvered his way through the first floor, keeping his movements nice and fluid, staying ever alert. The entire place was dark, convoluted, smelled fragrantly of shit and was no doubt crawling with goons; Marcus couldn't afford carelessness here.

Rey sprinted away, alerting every thug he could find to the detective's approach. They certainly tried, but Marcus proved to be a gunslinger that was quite difficult to stop. The cries of his fallen men coaxed Rey faster, perspiring as he wondered just _who the hell this guy was_.

Marcus was making good progress, blowing stuff up, blasting everyone in his way, etc. He turned a corner into a stairwell.

*BANG* went Rey's pistol, and something particularly sharp cut it's way across Marcus's face. He staggered in shock, and let loose with a wild storm of shots at the stairs, just as Rey disappeared up them.

"_SHIT_!"

Marcus felt along his cheek, tracing the fresh cut with his fingers. That shit was _far _too close for comfort. Marcus changed magazines, and continued his chase with renewed vigor.

He was up the stairs, turning left into another passage and slammed into another thug. Both of their weapons clattered to the ground, one going off and blasting apart the wooden supports of a ruined wall. Marcus was the first to his feet, and watched the thug scamper over to his fallen weapon. He was about to grasp the gun when Marcus brought his sneaker down on it, planting it firmly to the ground.

Going for the next best alternative, the thug produced a knife from his pocket and rose to his feet slashing at the detective. Marcus doubled back, ducking under his swings. He tried to stab him, only for the officer to dodge aside, grab his wrist, twist his arm around and floor him with incredible force. The thug heaved and attempted to stand, but Marcus delivered a foot unto his face. He tasted the floor once again, and remained there.

Marcus dusted himself off and retrieved his pistol. He continued down the passage, stealing a glance through the hole inadvertently made during the confrontation. From within, a man stared back at him, sitting on a toilet and utterly bewildered. Marcus scrunched his face, and made his way past. Another corner, another set of stairs, and Marcus found himself in another room, much larger than anything else he found in the building. A giant vault door was situated at the end, and in the doorway stood Rey.

"_I'm surrounded by USELESS FUCKING PEOPLE_!"

He ducked into the passage, and the steel door shut and sealed itself behind him.

"Damn, I'm gonna need something _ill_ to knock this door down…"

Marcus scoured the area, discovering nothing but a cheap wooden table, four chairs, a deck of cards and a discarded condom. He stepped into another hallway, entering another kitchen.

Military grade weapon crates sat stacked to the ceiling. One was open, its contents revealed for all to see.

Looking down at it, Marcus rested his eyes on something that simultaneously grabbed his interest and sent a cold shiver down his spine. Shined wood, black metal, a weapon of screaming explosive death.

An RPG.

He cradled it in his arms, tentatively, as if it were as fragile as a newborn baby. He ran a hand down its sleek surface, appreciating its beauty… and fearing its power.

"Oh ho… I can _definitely _work with this!"

Marcus returned to the large room, rocket launcher resting on his shoulder. He aimed for the vault, getting a feel for the weight of the weapon. The smallest bead of sweat trickled down his forehead, and he gave the trigger a squeeze.

The weapon shuddered, the projectile screamed, and all at once a plume of smoke engulfed him as the grenade tore through the air, spinning as it went, decimating the door with a tremulous force that shook Marcus down to his core.

It was pretty fucking loud too.

Waving away the haze and picking at his ear, Marcus proceeded through the heat and into the vault stepping over the bent, blasted steel door that rested on the floor. The passage was filled with weapon crates; assault rifles, submachine guns, grenades. A very conspicuous red laser beam hovered across the floor, barring his way to the ladder and trapdoor at the end of the hall.

"Looks like someone wants to trip me up…"

Marcus stepped back, readying himself at the opposite end of the passage. Cricking his neck, gathering his momentum, he sprinted down the hall and leapt over the inch high laser. Adrenaline surged through him, time slowing to crawl as he watched the laser pass below him in his flight. He hit the ground, rolling smoothly into a low crouch. He breathed deeply, keeping his posture for a moment before slowly rising to his feet. Continuing on, he ascended the stairs to the roof.

"So, I gotta deal with joo myself!?"

Rey was waiting for him, on the opposite end of the roof top standing on a display of large backwards metal characters spelling "REEB DLOC". Marcus watched him step into view, holding something he couldn't quite make out.

"_NO PROBLEM!_"

The familiar scream of an RPG reached his ears. The ground beneath his feet erupted, propelling him into the air on loose chunks of flying debris. He came down hard, clusters of small smoking pieces of concrete raining down with him. Marcus's feet slipped several times as he frantically tried to regain footing, as Rey loaded another projectile into his weapon.

The detective was up and sprinting away just as another scream tore its way down to his previous spot and obliterated it with as much explosive power as before. Marcus's ears were ringing, painful rocks blown skyward raining down upon him. He ducked behind the first solid looking object he could find, planting his back into it as he weighed his opt-

"What's wrong? You no want to _catch me no more_!?"

Boom went his cover, and Marcus was sent sailing once more. He collided with the ground, utterly delirious from the constant shaking blasts, trembling as he tried to lift himself up, his arms and legs feeling like jelly.

Then something he felt sobered him up. Ice shot through his body.

The roof gave a deep, receding lurch.

Marcus forced himself onto unsteady feet as fast as he could, and the world began to tilt sideways as the floor dipped further into the building, throwing him further off balance. Concrete split loudly, and he staggered his way off the soon-to-be-falling platform.

Rey watched the spectacle from the display, enjoying the show from his safe position above the building on the opposite side of the roof. Even if Reed managed to escape the cave in, Rey was certain that he wouldn't survive another rocket, and if not… well, he'd be just as dead. Win win!

In a single, crumbling break the roof finally gave way and Marcus jumped for dear life. His feet fell short, and he nearly disappeared with the rest of the crashing wreckage below when he shot out a single desperate hand for the edge. He grabbed hold, but only just.

From across the way, Rey's laughter came loud and clear. "Your luck's run out, _amigo_!" He rounded one final rocket in his direction.

Marcus's hand began to slip, fear poured through him. That same vulnerable sensation came over him; time slowed, senses sharpened, and Marcus was once again in tune with the universe.

He reached for his pistol with his left hand, awkwardly leveling it on Rey from below. Hopeless, but worth a try.

_What the fuck is he do-_

*Bang*, and a bullet slammed straight into Rey's left arm.

"_AY DIOS MIO_!"

Rey spun wildly with the bullet, and in his surprise he pulled the trigger. The rocket fired, slammed and was lodged in the letter O of the display, twitching and shrieking in its place. Rey checked his arm momentarily, then the sounds of the rocket's spitting thrusters registered in his head.

For three whole seconds he stared at the projectile, as it struggled within the tight space of the letter. In a moment of clarity, he decided that now would have been a good idea to be off the platform.

"SSSsshhhiiiiiittt!" He leapt to the roof, the display blasting apart in a deafening cacophony of destroyed metal. Rey hit the ground, very awkwardly, and badly scraped his knee.

Bullet in the arm, leg bleeding slightly; Rey was defeated.

Right hand on his wound, left on his knee, he rocked himself back in forth in pain. A shadow fell over him, and he looked up to the detective. The next instant, a powerful grip latched onto his collar and hoisted him to his feet.

"_You're_ the head of the Magdalena Cartel, and _you_ know where the processing facility is. So you better start talking, or they're going to be pouring out liquor for you by _morning_!"

Rey scoffed at the detective. "Joo got jour head way up joor _ass_, _negro_!"

Marcus stared at him for a second, his expression immediately going blank. The next thing Rey knew, he was jerked to the right and thrown, straight towards the ruined crater of the roof. He was nearly sent plummeting down when Reed caught hold of the bottom of his shirt, leaving him dangling at a ninety degree angle over certain death.

"Care to repeat what the _fuck _you just said?"

"You're way off base, pendejo!" he cried, staring down through the concrete chasm. "I'm not in charge of any _fucking Magdalena Cartel_!"

"What?… What the hell are you talking about?"

"What are _joo _talking about!? Christ man, you must be smoking _rock_! I am King of the _Latin Lords!_"

Marcus dipped an eyebrow.

"_Hehe, _you got _played _my friend; Magdalenas be using you to take out their competition! They are _real sneaky _like that. Last I heard, they import their shit in South American artifacts through the Zuma Museum uptown! What do you think of that, bro?"

Truthfully, Marcus wasn't quite sure what to think of it. Someone had purposely led him astray?

Slapping the cuffs on Ray, he momentarily pondered who could have misdirected him.

_It must have been the courier, he was the only lead I had in this case._

Still, a lowly runner distinctly knew the address of his enemy's headquarters off the top of his head? Something about the whole thing didn't quite add up.

Rubbing his chin, Marcus glanced around the smoking, ruined remains of what had once been this building's roof, the explosive battlefield he narrowly survived.

Well, in any case, Marcus had a drug lord in handcuffs and a cartel in ruins. It was certainly a productive day.

But as Marcus dropped down onto the nearest fire escape off the side of the building, he knew the day wasn't over yet.


End file.
